20 The Game is On
by E. J. Morgan
Summary: Q-niverse AU – Sherlock thought at first that the fight with his new arch enemy would only concern him. And that he could deal with. But when his little brother is threatened, it turns out to be something much more than just a game of two geniuses. Then it's war.


**The Game is On**

Q had been sleeping soundly until a few seconds ago in his own London flat after two very tiring days of work in MI6. The evening before (or maybe even this morning), as soon as he had made sure that 005 would return home from his assignment safe and sound, he had stumbled out of HQ half-unconscious, looking for all the world like a drunk, and literally fell into a waiting cab. He had only been able to gather enough energy to mumble his address to the startled driver before he had to shut up again, in order to concentrate on staying awake just for a little bit longer. Taking a taxi was not something he frequently did, but this time he had felt like he would never make it back to his flat without help, and – being his usual self – he hadn't wanted to bother anyone, asking them to drive him. So he had reluctantly decided to waste money and get a lift.

That's how he had come only around two hours ago to quickly change and then promptly collapse on his bed, already fast asleep. He hadn't even moved an inch up until the cursed moment when had been rudely awakened by a very curious and totally unexpected sound. It had not been loud at all and he really couldn't very well place it. It was funny it had even woken him with him being dead to the world with sleepiness and all. But it had woken him and now he was sitting up in his bed, trying to become aware enough to force his muscles to move and get up to look for the source.

Just then something occurred to him: he knew this sound! It was-

"Oh, shit!" – He jumped up, suddenly wide awake. He grabbed Confetti (the calico kitten) who had been sleeping curled up on top of the duvet at the end of his bed and also Pixel (the white Bengal kitten) from the cat bed in the corner of the room beside the open door as he was running out of his bedroom. Both felines loudly protested against such a brutal and unexpected treatment but the boy ignored them, choosing instead to run as quickly as he could.

He didn't stop to turn off the alarm system and tore open the entrance door instead right away. It started shrilling immediately just at the moment when the loud 'bang' of an explosion could be heard from his bedroom. The teenager was thrown into the corridor's wall opposite of his entrance door while his flat – along with all his belongings – caught fire and then got soaked in water as the fire sprinkler automatically turned on at the smoke.

Q lay on the floor in the corridor totally dazed from the impact while all the other residents on his floor panicky stepped over (and in some cases _on_ ) him in their hustle to get out and away from danger. Someone – Mr. Wilson from the flat to the right next to his – asked him if he was feeling all right but the boy was too out of it to answer. The man attempted to pull him to his feet for a few seconds but it proved impossible and in the end, the blind fear won out: with an embarrassedly muttered apology, Q was left behind, totally alone, save for his two kittens who were both absolutely frightened but otherwise thankfully unharmed, curled up against their human for protection, shaking like leaves in the wind.

The injured boy slowly got his senses back and registered… well… PAIN. With capitals. And then he also became aware the state of his beloved home!

"Oh, God!" – He exclaimed.

Just as he finally managed to move into a sitting position (or at least something closely resembling to it), half a dozen of firefighters came running up the stairs. One of them crouched down next to him while the others instantly disappeared into his flat.

"Are you all right, son? Do you know what happened?"

"No. I mean: yes, I'm all right. But I don't know what happened…" – That was not entirely true but he sure as hell wasn't about to talk to any strangers about it. He couldn't even be sure if these were real firefighters or just 'meanies' pretending to be the good guys. He couldn't trust anyone!

He needed… what? That stuff… He might have hit his head a bit hard 'cause it was actually quite hard to think… Oh, yeah. MI6. That's what he needed, so he said so. The fireman looked worriedly at him.

"MI6? Ahm… Don't worry, we have already called an ambulance. Come on, I'm going to accompany you out and-"

"No! I'm not going anywhere. It's my flat!"

"Sorry, lad, but I really have to take you outside. Can you tell me who else was in there with you when the explosion happened?"

"Nobody."

"You were alone?" – Again, that surprised and unbelieving tone… Well, yes, mister, even seventeen-year-olds can live alone. So what?

"Yes, because, as I just mentioned: it is _my_ flat!"

The man must have decided to humor him, because next he only said:

"All right, come on then." – And the man half-led, half-carried him out of the building, onto the street, where several people were already gathered, looking up at the window of his flat in horror or – in some passersby's cases – in poorly concealed excitement. Presumably, most of them haven't ever seen a spectacle like that before.

Q clutched his two kittens to his chest to protect them from any more terrors and the late autumn's cold while he looked around. He knew it wouldn't be long until someone from MI6 would come: his alarm system was – or used to be at any rate… - connected to the main servers back in Q-Branch. Of course there weren't that many people in there during the night but he knew that someone had had to realize what the flashing and screeching of his computer in the office meant and eventually would send help. There was a chance it would take a while but- Oh, yes, they were already there, bless them… Just at that moment two unmarked MI6 cars halted and out of them jumped M, Tanner, Moneypenny and one of the guards: Oliver; his abused head supplied helpfully over the pounding going on in there, and just a tad bit slower than usually.

The teenager waved the fussing doctors away and made his way towards his colleagues who started running as soon as they spotted him. Tanner reached him first and he instantly put two shaking hands on the boy's shoulders while he checked him over worriedly, trying to make sure everything was all right with his surrogate son.

"Q, what happened? Is everything all right? Your forehead is bleeding! Are you seriously injured? Shouldn't you be in the ambulance being looked at?"

Quite honestly, such a rapid flood of words didn't help his headache any…

"No, Bill, I'm fine... But my flat…" – He choked at the realization of what had really happened and turned helplessly around to see already dying flames trying to escape through the broken window of his bedroom. – "My flat is not all right." – He finished sadly.

"My boy, what happened?" – Asked M with a concerned voice.

"A small grenade was thrown into my bedroom through the half open window…"

"Oh, my God!" – Exclaimed Eve and clamped her hands over her mouth in fright. – "You could have been killed!"

"Yeah, well… Fortunately I woke up to the sound of the grenade hitting the floor then rolling a few inches and recognized it for what it was from all the times I've heard it over the comms… I grabbed Confetti and Pixel and ran."

"You're a hero" – Declared Moneypenny simply. – "I don't think many people would have been able to think straight in a situation like that at all."

The boy shrugged.

"It was instinct, I didn't think at all. But my flat and all my things…"

"Everything can be replaced as long as you're all right." – Said Bill and wrapped the boy in a bear hug. – "Come on, you must be freezing in those pajamas! We'll have the doctors look at you – no contradiction – then I'm taking you home to me." – He quickly took off his own coat and laid it over the boy's shoulders. The tiny boy nearly disappeared in it, for it was at least 5 sizes too big for him. But it also provided a good warm cocoon for him and his kittens so he wasn't about to complain about it…

"Thank you. But I have something to do first."

"What could you possibly have to do in that state, my boy?" – Asked Mallory with a frown. – "You're injured, cold and shaken up. Not a good combination. Everything that you may have to do can wait until tomorrow the earliest. You can take as much time away from work as you want to arrange your affairs."

"Thank you too, sir, but no: this actually can't wait." – He turned to Moneypenny. – "Eve, can you please take Confetti and Pixel back to HQ? They have everything they need there."

"Of course, Q, no problem. Give them to me, I'll just put them into the car. We'll make good warm temperature for them in there."

"Thank you. And Oliver, could you please make sure I'm allowed up into my flat? There's something I want to check."

The guard seemed undecided at first, especially seeing M's dark expression. But since the man didn't offer any verbal objections (probably to some extent understanding the boy's need to actively participate in the investigation – it had been an attack on him personally, after all), he finally relented.

"Ah… well… all right, sir."

So the both of them made their way up in the building (Oliver having frightened away anyone who might have tried to stop them), while M and Tanner spoke to the police about how this was an MI6 case and nobody else was to worry about it. No, they didn't care it was a national affair when one of their own was involved. Yes, they're absolutely welcome to take it up with their higher up. Yes, if they would just kindly disappear for now, that would be great.

Once in front of his no longer burning and now totally empty flat, Q took a deep breath to brace himself and entered… what had remained of it. There was nothing recognizable from his old life in there: his kitchen, living room, bathroom… absolutely ruined. The bedroom, having been the center of explosion, was even worse: bed in pieces, his closet and desk actually nearly totally gone… No clothes to speak of, no ID, cell phone, watch… no nightstand clock… nothing. Just dust, ash and debris everywhere with the lingering smell of burnt furniture mixed with water and other chemicals that had been used by the firefighters to extinguish the fire. They had done nearly as much damage as the explosion and following fire themselves.

The teenager looked around and had to fight the urge to cry. He would have liked to just sink to the floor and weep for at least a couple of hours but unfortunately he had more important and pressing matters to attend to right now: namely find out what this whole attack had been about. So he tried to ignore the stinging feeling behind his eyes, did his best not to take notice of the fact that it used to be his own home that looked like ancient Roman ruins right now and methodically looked around in the ex-bedroom, searching for any clues about what might have happened.

He didn't have to look for long: his eyes fell on a curious small metal box of the size of a matchbox lying on the floor in the middle of the remains of his once impeccably functioning personalized laptop. He knew instantly that that particular box had certainly never belonged to him.

He carefully picked it up and opened it. What he found inside answered a few questions but also provided a bunch of new ones. But he now at least had an idea where to begin.

He looked behind his back and checked to make sure nobody was there to see him as he closed the lid of the box again and pocketed it. He then made his way out to find the MI6 guard respectfully waiting for him by the door.

"I'm done here, there's nothing more here to do... Let's go."

 **Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

Outside the commotion hadn't decreased a bit. The residents of the house gave Q condemning looks as if this whole mess had been his fault (and from a certain point of view they might even have been right), while the other onlookers seemed absolutely eager to be part of such a great happening: they were taking picture after picture with their cell phones, they were in loud conversations with their friends and family, gesticulating widely even though it couldn't be seen over the phone, to tell them about this great adventure, and an elderly lady had even produced a small folding chair to sit on, wrapped herself into a warm-looking blanket and watched the spectacle comfortably as if she were a member of the audience in a theater. The teenager wondered darkly when they would start selling popcorn and coke to make the experience complete.

The police (who had apparently refused to leave but had at least agreed to limit their activity to securing the location) were unsuccessfully trying to make everyone leave who didn't have anything to do there – but of course they didn't stand a chance against the catastrophe tourism, as the mass of people rallying in front of the unfortunate building was steadily growing every minute.

Tanner came to assure the boy.

"Moneypenny has taken your cats to Headquarters. They seemed to be fine, were actually sleeping peacefully in the car already."

"That's good; I hope they won't suffer nightmares because of this."

"I'm sure they won't. May we go then?"

"Sorry but I still have something to do. You go ahead home."

"Son, don't be ridiculous, you're wearing pajamas and don't even have shoes on. Don't tell me you want to go anywhere in socks in November?"

"That's all I have left from my clothes." – Stated the boy the obvious. – "Besides, let me assure you that I can be just as dangerous in pajamas as the most feared knight in his best and shiniest suit of armor!"

"Well, I'm glad you still have your humor but the pneumonia you're going to catch will definitely take it away soon enough! You come home with me then we'll go shopping for new clothes tomorrow. Come on then-"

"No. It's very important that I speak with someone right now."

"But you can speak with _me_!"

"That's very nice of you but the attack was not orchestrated to get _your_ attention."

"What!? What do you mean?"

"I mean that now I know exactly what happened and I absolutely have to talk to Sherlock right away."

"Sherlock? Your middle brother? The one that's a psychopath?"

"He's a high-functioning sociopath, but yes, that one."

"I don't suppose you care tell me what exactly this is all about?" – The boy remained silent and Tanner sighed meekly. – "All right, but then I'm going to drive you there."

"You don't need to, I could take a taxi."

"I know, but I want to. Come on." – And with that, Bill pushed the boy onto the passenger seat of the remaining MI6 car, before getting in behind the wheel and asking for the house number. He knew already that Sherlock lived in Baker Street. Nowadays, probably everyone who didn't live in the jungle knew that.

"But what about M and Oliver?"

"I'll come back for them later; they still have plenty to do here anyway."

"Oh, okay. It's 221B."

 **Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

Once in Baker Street, Q quickly said goodbye to Bill, assuring him that he didn't need to worry about coming back for him this night and entered 221B as if it were his own home. Inside he proceeded to walk up the stairs, and knocked loudly on the door.

Just as he had expected, his brother was wide awake, doing some experiment or another, so he instantly ushered him inside. A raised eyebrow was every indication he showed of the surprise to find his little brother in his flat, in the middle of the night, clad only in his pajamas and socks (save for Bill's too big coat still draped over his shoulders), frozen and with a still slowly bleeding wound on his forehead. Any outside observer would think this was an everyday occurrence with them.

John – given his military training – had woken up to the sound of someone approaching and came out of his own room, still half asleep, rubbing his eyes and yawning widely. As soon as he spotted the boy though, his eyes became round as saucers. He couldn't hide his own surprise as good as Sherlock had. He exclaimed horrified:

"Benedict! What…? What…? Ahm… Are you all right?"

"Hi, John. Sherlock."

"Something happened."

Oh, yes, his brother had always had the annoying habit of stating the obvious… Q rolled his eyes. A genius indeed.

"Yes, Sherlock, you could put it that way, I guess. What happened is that my flat got blown up with me inside of it just around an hour ago. And the one responsible for the explosion was kind enough to leave a note addressed to you."

He pulled the metal box out of the pocket of Bill's coat and handed it to Sherlock. The middle Holmes brother tentatively opened it, unrolled the piece of paper found inside and – holding it so that also John could see it – read the message out loud:

 _Sorry about the flat. Give my best to Sherlock. JM_

There was momentarily silence while the two men tried to absorb what they were seeing and the implication of it.

"Who the hell is 'JM'? What kind of mess have you gotten yourself – and not to mention _me_ – into, Sherlock?" – Demanded Q, getting annoyed with the lack of reaction. He had expected… well… at least _something_ from his middle brother.

Sherlock visibly shook himself, crumpled the paper and threw it into the fireplace as if it were a mere receipt of a daily routine shopping, not needed anymore.

"Do not concern yourself with it, little brother." – Was all his response.

"WHAT? I should _not concern myself with it_? Are you crazy? Right now, there's a big, gaping void in the building where my flat used to be! I don't have anything, do you understand, brother!? I have literally _nothing_ left because you angered some bloke called 'JM'!"

"So, and just what do you expect me to do about it?"

"Oh, I don't know… Maybe, for starters, tell me what this whole mess is about? Hmm…?"

"Boys, boys." – Like always, John tried to be the voice of reason. – "Let's not argue with each other, it's bad enough that we have enemies to worry about."

"You mean _that big moron of a brother of mine_ has enemies. I didn't know about having any."

"I really don't know why he chose to go after you." – Remarked Sherlock, not sounding particularly bothered about the fact. – "But I certainly didn't tell him to do so, so don't expect _me_ to feel bad about it."

"So, that's all you've got to say? You're a real jerk!" – Shouted Q and stormed out of the living room, starting towards the stairs. John rushed to grab his arm to hold him back.

"Benedict, what are you doing? You can't go out like that! You'll get sick. And where do you want to sleep?"

"You know; I have friends who actually care whether I live or die. I'm going to one of them. Have a good night, Doctor Watson."

"Wait!" – John stepped very close to him and said into his ear a near-whisper. – "Name's James Moriarty." – And then when he knew the boy understood he'd help him, he continued in normal voice. – "I won't let you go out alone like that. I'm coming with you. We get a taxi."

"All right. If you insist…"

 **Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

Once they had left and Sherlock remained alone, he started making his plans. Moriarty had now gone too far. Sherlock could have taken a lot from the man but nearly killing his little brother was most assuredly not one of these things. It was unacceptable and unforgivable.

He tried playing it down in front of Benedict and also tried not telling him anything, for fear the boy would start his own investigations and most probably get into even more trouble than what he already was in. Actually, Sherlock was sure this attack had been only meant as a message for him, and had had really nothing to do with the youngest Holmes at all. It had been most probably not even really intended to kill the boy, just to get the criminal's point across. (Not that he would have cared about any casualties; it was not Moriarty's habit to mourn innocents.)

Sherlock knew that John would tell the teenager everything he knew during the taxi ride: he was far too good and trusting not to do so. The young menace would then go and do something stupid, like trying to catch Moriarty on his own – or worse yet: set a few of his Double-O lapdogs on the man. That wouldn't do anyone any good.

He had been toying around in his head with a very drastic plan for some time now, cooperating with Mycroft (yes, that can actually happen from time to time when the situation really called for it, like for example now). It was not a plan either of them had really wished to go through with; more like a last resort. But now it was about their little brother and that had decided things for them: it seemed they had to act. And soon. He dialed Mycroft's number from memory. The oldest brother answered right away despite the late (or rather already early morning) hour.

 _Sherlock, I have been waiting for your call. You're getting slow, brother dear._

Mycroft. I trust you heard.

 _Yes, unfortunately I just got word. News travel incredibly slow these days. Also, someone had the ridiculous notion of not wishing to wake me for this. They have been fired of course._

It was Moriarty. He left me a message. It was a warning. He's preparing for something.

 _The game is on then?_

The game is on.

Nothing else had to be said because they both knew very well what that meant. The end of the life Sherlock had built for himself. The greatest sacrifice one could make for anyone. But it was not to be avoided now, for they had to make it obvious to everyone: nobody messed with their little brother without immediate and lethal consequences for them. Nobody.

 **Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

Q didn't go to Tanner's that night. He asked the cabby to take him right to Vauxhall. The teenager entered the building still wearing only pajamas and socks, with Bill's coat pulled securely around him. The few people he encountered during the walk to his office (guards at the entrance, cleaning staff, nightshift personnel) gave him surprised looks but nobody actually questioned him. It seemed they hadn't yet heard what had happened but still thought that anything was to be expected from a teenager these days. And especially from this one. It was just as well. Q wouldn't have time for any kind of unnecessary chit-chat anyway.

He entered his office with deliberate strides (completely ignoring the present minions' openmouthed stares despite Eve having briefed them on the night's events in advance), and greeted his two small kittens who came to meet him in the door. They at least seemed all right and genuinely happy to see him, not caring about his rumpled looks. He saw one of the minions approaching as if to ask something but he just waved the poor man away. He was not in the mood to explain anything. He closed the door of his office, effectively shutting everyone else but his two cats out. That barrier between him and the rest of the world was just what he needed for now.

He looked at the shelf above his desk and felt a very honest, childish joy at the sight of Paddington Bear sitting there beside the miniature Eiffel Tower he had brought from Paris unharmed, smiling at him. The teenager was incredibly glad that neither the toy bear nor his beloved souvenir had been in the flat at the time of the explosion. Neither had been his growing collection of fridge magnets. Luckily, he had more personal items in his office than at home since that was where he spent most of his time anyway. Thus, his most important belongings that held sentimental value to him hadn't got lost in the fire at least. That way he now still had all the presents he had ever gotten from his friends scattered around the office.

"We're homeless now, Paddington." – He informed his furry friend with a sad sigh. - "We have nothing but what's in this room and what we're wearing right now. We're totally alone and helpless in London. But don't you worry: I'll take care of you!"

He grabbed a small piece of paper and wrote 'Please look after this bear. Thank you' on it, then secured it around the toy's neck, feeling like he probably should do the same thing for himself. He didn't have any idea why he did it, it just seemed right somehow to give at least Paddington something to remind him that he belonged somewhere and people would always care for him in HQ.

He then petted the stuffed animal's head lovingly and went to work on his new project: finding out as much as possible about a certain criminal called James Moriarty.

 **Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

He must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing he realized was that he had two furballs sleeping on him (one on the top of his head that rested on his folded arms on the desk and the other curled up in his lap), while outside all the minions were just about to begin their tasks for the day. The ones who had had the night shift had already gone home for their much deserved rest and the fresh arrivals still clutched their morning coffees and chatted away with each other, looking restless, giving the two-way mirror at the other side of his office worried glances even though they couldn't see through it.

Q sighed and got up to feed the kittens. He then went into the bathroom just to find himself face to face with his own, admittedly frightening, reflection: granted, he was a total mess with his sleepily blinking, bloodshot eyes, bruises with dried blood on his forehead, black ash on his face. Hair in complete disarray, not that it was anything unusual… And of course the loose, now also somewhat blood-smeared pajamas he was still wearing from the night before.

He showered and changed into his spare clothes he always kept in the office: a well-worn pair of jeans, a fluffy pullover several sizes too big for him and age-old trainers. Not a very stylish appearance but not that much different from what he usually wore anyway. The only problem was that he didn't have an own coat at all, just the one he had been given by Tanner. He'd need to go shopping however much he hated even the idea of it.

As soon as he exited the bathroom, he took the documents from the investigations he had done before falling asleep and quickly read through his findings again:

James 'Jim' Moriarty was a well-known murderer who had been active in his profession for many years. He was a criminal mastermind, whose brilliance matched that of Sherlock's. No wonder his brother didn't want to talk about him… If Sherlock called himself a consulting detective then Moriarty was a _consulting criminal_. Both men unique and overly dangerous in their own mysterious way… That might have been the reason he seemed to have shown an almost obsessive amount of interest in the middle Holmes brother in the past. The records of their encounters could be followed on John Watson's highly informative blog. Q had had an interesting time reading through all the adventures of his brother and the doctor's – he hadn't heard about most of them before. But of course he hadn't had the time to catch up with everything they had done, however much he would have wished to just spend the night reading for fun and forget his problems.

So back to the matter at hand: Moriarty was the master of deception, able to conceal himself and fool everyone around him – at the beginning, even Sherlock. That had been quite a shock to learn. It looked like Moriarty had spent a considerable amount of time trying to convince everyone that Sherlock was only a fraud and not really a brilliantly skilled detective at all, gaining respect by fabricating lies about non-existing crimes just so he could 'solve' them later. He had even gone so far as to claim that the criminal 'Moriarty' had only been a creation of Sherlock's, played by an actor he had hired… Q found at least five newspaper articles going on about Sherlock's supposed scandal. What a nerve! And the most incredible thing about it: some of Sherlock's so called friends even seemed a bit undecided about whom to believe. Some friends… No wonder his brothers didn't want to trust anyone. Did real friendship and loyalty even still exist somewhere in the world?

Not to mention that Moriarty had obviously played the role of 'Max Denbigh' as well, fighting with M and trying to take down MI6. No question there about motivation: they surely stood in the way of his world-conquering plans. And they all had believed him dead… How could they have been so stupid? They hadn't been able to see what had been right in front of their very eyes!

The boy couldn't believe he hadn't heard about this Moriarty-affair from any of his brothers until now; then he might have been able to pay more attention and make the connection sooner. Had it really taken a grenade in his home for him to learn that Sherlock was in such a big trouble? He surely wouldn't win the best brother's prize, Q decided sadly. He felt even worse as soon as he remembered the last word that he had said to his brother the night before as a goodbye. Of course it was absolutely true: Sherlock _was_ a jerk, everyone knew that, but in light of his recent learnings he surely wouldn't have said it at a time like that.

Just as he had made a decision about how to proceed next, there was a knock on the door of his office, then it opened without further ado, and Tanner stepped in, looking murderous with anger.

"Just what did you think, young man, coming here in the middle of the night!? I thought you would stay at your brother's but this morning I was informed by the guards that you came here yesterday still in pajamas and without shoes, smeared in blood and ash!"

"But I didn't lie! Technically, I never said I would stay in Baker Street…"

"Don't give me that shit, boy, you knew perfectly well I believed you would do that, otherwise I would never have let you go there at all and leave. You knew I wanted you to go to my flat and not spend the night here in your office all alone after what happened!"

"Bill, please, it's fine. I had things to do."

"What could be so important that it couldn't wait until today?"

Q sighed.

"Something that's still not over. I'm sorry but I need to go-"

"Yes, you need to go: home, with me. Anything else is out of question!"

"No, I meant I needed to go somewhere else. Alone."

"You can't go anywhere in these clothes, you'll get pneumonia!"

"I'll take one of the cars from the garage."

"You don't have a license."

The teenager grinned and held up a plastic card for Tanner to see.

"I have it now. Just made it a few hours ago. It's still fresh and crisp." – He stated proudly. It was true: he had made the license for himself just before falling asleep.

"Son, we have talked about it! You're not going to use a fake license! You'll need to take the exam just like everyone else. That's how the system works! Just because you're a genius capable to create fake IDs it doesn't mean I'll allow you to make your own license!"

"Well, when we were talking about it, I still had my flat and my brother didn't have a crazy criminal chasing after him, using me as bait. Don't worry though, I hacked the system: this license is totally valid. Any police officer is welcome to check."

"Q-"

"I know very well how to drive; I've been stunt driving the agents' cars since I was 12!"

"That's a detail I didn't want to know, boy!"

"But then how else was I supposed to develop and test them?"

"You weren't!"

"Yes, I was. Old Major Boothroyd allowed it!"

"Somehow I doubt it."

Q shrugged.

"Well, he certainly never offered any objections." – He argued.

"Did he know about it at all?" – There was silence. – "Q!"

"Look, I found out my brothers are planning something stupid and they want to keep me in the dark about it. I need to go talk to Mycroft right away."

"You want to stop them?"

"Of course not. I want to be included in the scheme." – And with that the boy walked out of the office, leaving a very confused and seething Tanner blinking after him.

 **Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

Q parked 009's Bentley right in front of the Diogenes Club and walked up the stairs, taking two at a time. He entered the building though the enormous mahogany double door (he had to thrust against them with his whole weight to move them), and approached the front desk with the most determination he could muster, presenting all the confidence that his title of Quartermaster required him to possess, despite looking more like a homeless, underfed drug-addict in his current state than anything else. He gave everyone who dared stare at him with surprised, condescending eyes a death glare that instantly had the effect of forcing the elegant members of the club turn away from the apparition and pretend to be very much engrossed in their morning papers.

'Monkeys in suits.' – Thought the boy in disgust.

At the desk he demanded – using sign language of course – to be allowed to talk to his brother right away.

 _I'm sorry, sir, Mycroft Holmes is very busy at that time and can't be disturbed._ – Signaled back the clerk.

 _I absolutely couldn't care less how busy he is. I repeat: I want to talk to him. NOW!_ – Nobody would have thought it was even possible to actually shout with sign language but the ragged-looking teenager had managed to do just that. His attitude, combined with the look he gave the poor attendant, did what it was designed to do: the worker motioned for Q to enter the Stranger's Room and informed him that Mycroft Holmes would be there momentarily.

Q waved his thanks and left the frightened man alone to arrange the meeting. He hoped Mycroft wouldn't make him wait for long: they had a lot to discuss after all. He looked around in the room with slight awe: it actually resembled the cozy reading room of a library: shelves stood packed with different books by the walls and there were comfortable-looking leather armchairs scattered around small coffee tables. There was even a fireplace and a big globe standing on four legs in one corner. Q had never been inside the club before and this wasn't what he had expected. He had thought the whole place was cold, strict and entirely too tidy. But he had to admit: this was quite a friendly little room.

It didn't mean he wished to stay and get to know the rest of the building, so he looked at the antique grandfather clock (it looked to be at least 150 years old) with barely-concealed impatience. Where was his brother?

 **Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

"Benedict. Elegant as ever, I see." – Remarked Mycroft as soon as he had closed the soundproof door and made sure that nobody else was in the room but the two of them. He eyed the youngest brother's appearance from head to toe, beginning with his messy hair, bruised face, slightly crooked glasses (spare pair out of his office desk drawer, for his good one had also become victim to the destruction), far too huge coat (probably someone else's), torn jeans and shabby trainers. He felt sure this building had yet to see an apparition even similar to Benedict's within its walls.

Q smiled as if reading his brother's thoughts.

"I'm afraid I might have offended some of your snob friends with my mere presence. I just hope nobody got a heart attack."

"Well, let's hope so. I'm certain it would cause a small national catastrophe: do you have an idea who all those people are? They're members of the Parliament, leaders of different ministries-"

"I couldn't care less even if the head of the NASA himself were here, Myc."

"He's not. He was banned two years ago because he couldn't learn British sign language and kept trying to make himself understood with the American one. It was quite entertaining watching him signing one-handed at first but then everyone got tired of his attempts after a while."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, I'm not good in sucking up to higher-ups. M tried to take me with him on a meeting once, to introduce me as his second, but he quickly had to reconsider that tactic. Luckily, he hasn't mentioned any such plans ever since."

"Do I want to know what you did to make him change his mind that abruptly?"

"Probably not. But it could be a good idea for you not to advertise here that I'm your brother. Just to be safe. We wouldn't want you to lose your reputation after all, would we?"

"That's very considerate of you… So, should I dare ask what brought you here then today, brother mine, if not to undermine my authority?"

"I trust you have heard what happened to my flat, haven't you?"

The oldest Holmes made himself comfortable in one of the big, elegant armchairs. He crossed his legs and rested his chin on his folded hands.

"Naturally. I know everything that happens in the country. In the EU. In the whole world."

"It's most reassuring to hear that your infamous self-confidence hasn't abandoned you yet."

"Being realistic and knowing one's strengths are way more important than modesty. I can't afford to be humble." – Q snorted. – "So, what do you want, Benedict? I never thought I'd ever see you visit this place. You have always expressed your deepest repulsion against this 'dump', as you so affectionately call it."

"Yes and see how I have to give up my principles because of the two of you! Pathetic." – With that the boy dropped a thick folder onto the dark wooden coffee table in front of his brother. – "James Moriarty. Murderer, master of decoy, liar, genius. Sherlock's current biggest arch-enemy. Cunning, calculative, manipulative, ruthless and seems to hold a whole web of criminals in his hands, all around the world. He also tried to kill me last night."

Mycroft didn't move to take the documents.

"It's most unfortunate that you had to become involved in this game." – He admitted, for the first time that day showing some semblance of sympathy. Not much but still more of an effort than Sherlock had made.

"Yeah, 'unfortunate' is one way to put it. Also lucky from a certain point of view, I guess, because this way I at least learnt about the problem. Or when were you planning on telling me about my brother being threatened and literally tortured by that madman?"

"We weren't."

"And just why not if I may ask? I work for MI6; don't you think I could have helped? We have Double-Os for situations like that! I could have had him eliminated months ago, had you just told me about him in the first place. We could have spared this whole fuc-"

"Language!" – Hissed Mycroft.

Q just rolled his eyes at his brother's scolding. He knew very well Mycroft and Sherlock could both swear like a sailor when they wanted to.

"An _inconvenience_ then and the _disastrous_ incident, if you like it better this way."

"You always say you have your own life now, _Quartermaster_. Surely, your brothers' problems aren't of any interest to you anymore, are they?"

"Don't you dare mock me about my life and decisions like that, Mycroft! Of course I care and naturally I would have helped. For one it becomes my problem when it's my flat being blown to pieces. But I also would have liked to be involved without that. I still want to help. Besides: Max Denbigh? It concerns the whole MI6 as well now! So. Tell me: I know you have a plan."

"What makes you think that?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe the 'I know everything that's going on around the whole world' speech could have something to do with it… Also, I know you and I know Sherlock. He's being made a fool of right now and there's no way he would just take something like that on the chin without planning revenge. And you'd naturally want to be part of it, as you can't take not having the opportunity to meddle in something."

Mycroft shifted in his seat but still refused to even look at the files his little brother had brought him.

"We might or might not have a plan."

"Well, that was clear speech." – Rolled his eyes Q. – "Could you be a bit less vague?"

Mycroft looked at the boy with a deep, calculating stare that made the teenager feel as though he were being X-rayed. It was quite uncomfortable to tell the truth. Just when Q felt he couldn't hold back the fidgeting anymore, the oldest brother seemed to finally have come to a decision, and with a resigned sigh, began the explanation:

"Sherlock wants to destroy Moriarty and his web completely. For that, he will have to disappear for a while – probably years but at least months. Go abroad and work in the shadows. Make everyone think he's dead."

Q nearly fainted upon hearing that. His brother should _disappear_ _for years_!?

"What the hell are you talking about, Myc, are the both of you completely out of your minds? This is exactly the duty of Double-Os, not something Sherlock should be doing!"

"Try telling that to Sherlock; as you mentioned: Moriarty seems to have bested him for now and that's not something he's going to just let slide."

"So he's going to ruin his whole life because of his hurt pride? How is that sane? It's the most childish thing ever!"

Mycroft shook his head sadly, looking like he had the troubles of the whole world weighting on his shoulders. For the first time ever it occurred to Q that maybe his oldest brother didn't have very easy life either.

"Just when has Sherlock ever been _sane_? Listen; the way he sees it, his life is already ruined. Everyone thinks he's a fraud, even Lestrade has begun to doubt him at this point."

"And what about John? I trust he's still as devoted to his best friend as he used to be." – Q refused to even consider anything else. The day John's loyalty in Sherlock would falter would also be the end of the world.

"He is. But Sherlock wants to spare him having to put up with all these nonsense or also get into danger. He doesn't want Moriarty to use anyone else against him. What happened to you has deeply shaken him even if he didn't show it in front of you yesterday. I think he's just realized he's not the only one at risk. That others – people he cares about even if he would never admit it – might suffer as well."

Now the teen felt even worse for having accused Sherlock that he didn't care…

"So he'll make even John believe he's dead? What kind of protection is that!? John will be crashed!"

"Sentiments…" – The oldest Holmes looked sick even at the thought of something as mundane as _feelings_ playing a role. – "…they don't matter now because we can't afford for them to count. What matters is life. John will live and be safe."

"But what kind of life will that be? He'll blame himself!"

"We're not responsible for the quality of other people's lives. For now we'd be content with just keeping everyone alive."

"That's a load of bullshit and you know it too."

"You don't have to have a role in it though I hope you understand you won't be allowed to tell him anything. That's exactly why I didn't want to get you involved at all…"

"So you would have let me believe my brother was dead!?" – It was outrageous! The teenager felt like he could explode. It was-

"Bit of a hypocrite, are you not, brother dear?"

"I… Oh." – Okay, maybe Mycroft _did_ have a point there… But still. - "But I want to help! I am the Quartermaster, I prepare agents for missions like that all the time: I plan, equip them, lead them through their tasks… That's what I do! There's no reason Sherlock should do it all alone when I could help him along the way. He'd have a far better chance to emerge victorious and actually come back alive instead of in a body bag!"

Mycroft seemed to really consider at. He also paled and shuddered at the mental picture of Sherlock not surviving.

"Could you do it in total confidence? Without anyone noticing anything? Don't forget: it's an unsanctioned mission. Nobody can know about it. To the world Sherlock Holmes will be dead. He will kill himself out of shame for having pretended to be something he is not for years."

Q felt like crying.

"He will even sacrifice his honor?"

"There's no honor for him to speak of now. Nothing to sacrifice."

Q nodded, accepting the truth.

"Of course I can do it in total confidence. Nobody controls what I do. I'm the head of my branch and M's second. I don't have to report all the time every little thing I do. Nobody questions me and I can use my budget as I see it fit. I'm the superior of even the Double-Os. I can and will do it. And afterwards when this is all over with and Sherlock can come back home, I will be the one clearing my brother's name as well."

Mycroft actually looked impressed. He hadn't known his little brother held _that much_ power and influence… Maybe… Just maybe the three Holmes brothers could really make this work between themselves…

"So, does that mean you're in?"

Q squared his shoulders and stood up taller, feeling more determined and sure of himself than ever. The exploded flat, all the lost personal items and his ragged, too big clothes didn't matter now in the slightest.

"Yes. I'm in."

"Very well. The game is really on then."

 _The end – or the beginning…?_


End file.
